


Scratch into the Flesh

by FastestKeyboardTyperInTheWest



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: But meh., I wrote this in about two hours so take it as you will, M/M, Mentions of tattoos, This is quite rubbish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 17:44:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FastestKeyboardTyperInTheWest/pseuds/FastestKeyboardTyperInTheWest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is always covered in art supplies. Because of this, Enjolras has never noticed it before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scratch into the Flesh

Grantaire is always covered in art supplies. It is a part of his character so embedded in him that no one can get it out: you can’t get out some of the marks, either. There’s a swoop of a dye, permanent, on his neck from a ‘wacked-out painting blitz in the late 90s’ and two nails with clay shoved so deep into the cracks it’ll be there when he dies. Because of this, Enjolras has never noticed it before.  
  
The sex is good, tonight, as usual, and it’s only when Grantaire is mewling above him as he traces the edges of his thighs that he sees the mark. And it’s definitely a mark, as one would see on cattle or a slave. A curled ‘E’, in almost cursive, shoddily yet charmingly etched into the skin. It’s not professional, it’s got frayed edges and looks red around the edge. He sits up. Grantaire is still panting, and his face flickers into confusion. Without a word, he wipes his hands on his thighs and goes to the bathroom. He locks the door.  
  
What.  
  
The.  
  
Hell.  
  
He isn’t sure why that ‘tattoo’, if you can call it that, is there. Moreover, he’s not sure why Grantaire would do it to himself. He knows that the man has other tattoos (they are beautiful ones, sweeping skulls and birds and shapes that shouldn’t  make sense yet do) but they are professionally done. This is a home brewed version. This is, most likely, done with one of the needles kept in the bottom of the chest of draws that Grantaire doesn’t think he can see. There is pounding on the door. There is shouting, but he cannot hear the words. He can hear some words, words in his brain, echoing where speeches and causes would most likely go.  
  
 _It is because of you_ , it says,   _you, that the scar is there_.  
  
\---  
  
He is very, very confused. Extremely confused. And still aroused. Aroused but confused. It isn’t the first time this has happened. He’s definitely not sure about why Enjolras is now shut in the bathroom. He thinks back to when the man leapt off him, walked away without a word. He traces the edge of his thigh. It is smooth beneath the hair, like baby skin, and it is smooth along it all, until there’s that itch and- oh. Oh. That’s- oh. Even for an artist, Grantaire’s never been a great observationist. It’s still red-raw, he remembers, because he hasn’t creamed it today. Or covered it in art. Damn. He knocks on the door again. Still no sound; he can barely even hear Enjolras’ breathing.   
  
‘Talk to me,’ he says. There is still no sound. ‘Come on. Talk to me. Let me explain.’ There is only faint breathing. He sighs. ‘Look: I did it one night when I was really down, y’know? And you and all the fanclub were going on about revolution this and revolution that and then you looked at me in such distaste, like you do sometimes. And I just felt so worthless, so hated, so small and puny and insignificant in face of Apollo that I felt I had to go. You remember that?’  
  
\---  
  
Enjolras did. He remembered it quite well. He’d been making a speech of wit and optimisim and truth and Grantaire had spoken out, loudly, of how it would never come to pass; how they’d never make anything of themselves and how they’d be consigned to history. The glare that he’d pushed upon his friend had been his cruellest, and the shouts of cruelty that had come from his torn throat had made the other man leave. They had not seen him for three days. When he came back, he was extremely drunk. He remembered it well. With his face now pressed against the door, he nodded.   
  
\---  
  
‘Well, after that, I went home and got really drunk, did a few paintings and passed out. When I woke up, I drank some more. Then I went into the bottom draw,’ he ran a hand through his hair, ‘got out some ink and a needle and scratched an E into my thigh. There. That’s the story.See, that’s nothing.Nothing to worry about.’ There is still silence. He traces the letter. He doesn’t regret it. Not a bit. It was a stupid thing to do, yes, and it hurts like a bitch, but so does the morning after and he’s had more of them then he has coherent evenings. It’s nice to know Enjolras will always be there in some form, because it won’t last forever. He’s a cynic and he admits it.  
  
The door opens.   
  
Enjolras walks out.  
  
‘To scratch or to be scratched into the flesh makes a god out of a man,’  
  
‘Where is that from?’  
  
‘I don’t know. Maybe my brain,’  
  
‘I like it.’  
  
‘Good.’


End file.
